The End
by Cannibal Jello
Summary: A lonely being considers why everything beautiful eventually dies.


Title: The End.

Author: cannibaljello at yahoo dot come

Notes: ….depression strikes once more. Then again, when doesn't it? I only write when it's at it's worst.

I love David. He's a half of me. He fits everything about me so well. It's a shame that I can never have him again.

* * *

And so the end begins...

* * *

Once, just once, I met a man who was wounded. Who was dying, his eyes far too empty of all that wasn't made of anything...had no matter. That were powerful, lacking peace, like all life did. As if the fangs of a predator had found his throat and drank from it, as his mouth moved soundlessly in its last plea for life...it's last wish to be free.

His name was David King.

He had black hair. Silver eyes. A black heart and silver slivers of tears that trickled down thewells of waterineach of hiseyes, seeming just as sharp as crystal shards which caught on the tips of a chin, the dips of concaved hollow cheekbones.

Despite them, he told me his story.

He said with his hand alone, on paper that puckered beneath the bleeding bittersweet droplets that fell from blood-filled eyes...

You use to be the hands on my chest, circulating the air in and out. In and out.

Now that they're gone...I'm drowning in myself. I can no longer inhale because what I breathe... won't be you. Won't be, because you left me.

I hope you're happy.

I hope that because I've endured so many enraged moments, so many hours of loss spend without soul, lacking life, which it encouraged you to grow. Like the roots of a rose which buds bloomed and blossomed because of my tears, you've opened yourself to share the sweet scent with someone else, while you drink my tears and thrive off of them. From them. From me.

You then turned away from me, leaves and all. No longer was I your sunshine.

That's how it had always been, hadn't it? I was the one to wait. To watch my hands that wished to hold yours dry out...crack, crust, and crumble away before flesh fell from the bone like dust without the breeze, lacking the ease of something so weightless. My depression drove me down, dampened that dust, and forced it to hit hard. To break again, once it came into contact with the ground that didn't care to hold me, even a half of me. Even the least bit of a piece and the last.

How could I cry so much and not be able to save them?

Salt tends to dehydrate...so that must be why. Or maybe I was not meant to be saved, ever again.

I cannot blame it. I can't blame you. I'm not enough for earth to want. For Mother Nature to nurture like all her other children, for I am her failure. I am nothing but a collection of hollow, bitter hopes, whose only fate had been to become broken, scattered, shattered like my mind when it is far too mature for my age.

I feel so old. So tired that I can no longer keep my eyes open to see. The lids are just another part of me...my energy. And it too, is not enough for you.

I wish it could be.

I am not family. This name I have does not belong to me. These titles are superfluous...and bring me shame. I am not a friend. I am not a lover. I am a lie, which must be the reason why...you left me. You left me alone to be what I am, to discover and decide if I want it like you said you wanted me.

You speak as much as the dead. To you, have I lost my ears, my senses, my sight, and my tangibility? Am I not worth touching, trying for? Am I so poor that to you, it's a waste to want, to need, to succeed?

Souls say more. There's a ghost around, and he is waiting for me. Wailing. He senses the failing of my future; he's there to nurture. To bring me to that hell which I belong within the walls of.

I don't want you to bid me farewell. I doubt you'd want to, anyway. I don't want you to talk. To try and do something, anything to keep me alive. I don't want to sob on my knees and rob what's left of the life inside.

I want to enjoy it. What is worse, is that I want to do it with you and only you. Without, I am an open heart, which spills and fills to pool in palms cupping the hollow crevices of eyes that haven't seen the daylight in eternity. Within, there is no energy. No flame, just the blame which blisters and boils and soils the rest of me.

I was always dirty. Tarnished. I lacked any worth at all. In fact, I deserve less than this. I do.

And so I end this letter with this wish to you. Forget about me, but forgive me, for never being enough.

The paper then ended, with folding fingers, which moved only through a sliver of space to deliver the letter to its owner. To its receiver, the red which ate it away with greedy numerous tongues that touch numb fingers. Flesh charred at the kiss of the flame which was spoken of, thriving atop the tip of a candle.

There was the drip of wax. The dip of a head as if the body attached to it were dead. That fact was only another lie...like everything had been. Everything, because...

_I_ am David King.


End file.
